Understanding by Observation
by JennyMoose
Summary: John and Sherlock fall out over Sherlock's inability to take responsibility for his actions towards Lestrade. John ends up at a crime scene without Sherlock, but the situation has reminded him of something he'd rather forget... Characters belong to ACD and Moftiss.
1. Stubborn Git

'Greg is letting you in on these cases because he needs you and he respects your judgement, and God knows what you'd do without them. He is doing you a FAVOUR. Can't you see that? You do NOT have the right to muck about and deduce the hell out of his personal life in front of the Yard! You are his friend, and friends don't do that to each other.' John seethed with all the power and strength of the military captain that he used to be, but his voice was scarily quiet.

Sherlock briefly flicked his eyes up from his microscope, where he was analysing the types of grass found in different parks of London, to see John fuming in the doorway of the kitchen. He looked back towards the eyepiece. Despite all that high-functioning sociopath stuff, he had learnt some things from John. One of which was that a loud, angry John could be shouted down. Another one of which was that an angry John who had gone past the point of shouting was best left to cool down by himself. Sherlock huffed quietly.

'Are you even taking in what I'm saying? Greg asked for an apology – quite rightly too – and he is perfectly within his rights to ban you from cases until you give him one! He has enough problems at home, there's no need to exacerbate them by letting his _colleagues_ know how many lovers his wif-'

'Yes, thank you John, you've made your point quite clear. I'm sure Lestrade will come round soon enough, when he can't solve any cases because his team is too idiotic to see what's staring them in the face.' Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience with John's diatribe.

'You-' John just stared at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open. He shut it again with a click of his teeth. 'You're actually not going to apologise, are you?'

'No, John. Well observed.' Sherlock sneered back at him. He really needed to concentrate on this cataloguing – many cases required up to date, seasonal knowledge of the precise origins of different organic matter in the city. 'Currently, I have several experiments I can do, and I estimate that it will only take four and a half days before Lestrade comes back to me, asking for help. Perhaps only four, if you invite him to the pub and talk him round a bit.'

'You do realise I'm NOT going to support you in this? You were completely wrong to say that to his face, let alone in front of his team, and you deserve all the grief you get for it. I've a right mind to invite him to the pub and explicitly tell him not to give you any cases for at least a month.'

At this Sherlock paused, holding a slide in one hand. 'You wouldn't. What would _you _do for a month? There are only so many snivelling children and cases of thrush a man can handle. You would get horrendously bor-'

'What!? This isn't about me! This is about you and your idiotic brain not thinking about what you say before it comes out of your bloody mouth! I'm quite capable of keeping myself occupied, because I have some sense of social skills and can KEEP SOME FRIENDS. Besides, I enjoy being a doctor and helping people. Because I am not a selfish, stubborn git like someone sitting in front me who apparently does not care that he has made a complete cock-up of things!'

Sherlock simply sighed. This was really getting tedious. If Lestrade had not been so rude about Sherlock stealing his IDs (it was his own fault – if a Detective Inspector couldn't tell when his pockets were being invaded then he shouldn't blame whoever took the opportunity to do so), and he hadn't been so inept that he'd taken _days _to get Sherlock all the evidence (during which time, obviously, Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept properly, too busy trying to work out the answer without all of the facts) then Sherlock wouldn't have snapped at him. He was quite proud of that deduction actually, when he realised that the creases in Lestrade's suit meant that he couldn't possibly have slept o-. He realised John had returned to his speech.

'-to go out before I do something I'll regret, and I expect you to have come up with an apology. I'm sure somewhere in that great big mind palace of yours you've got something which tells you how to do it.'

Sherlock just ignored him.

'Sod this.' John turned on his heel, and marched towards the door, not even bothering to pick up his coat, despite the brisk autumn chill. He knew Sherlock could be an annoying git, but this really took the biscuit. He'd truly thought Sherlock held some sort of respect for Greg, who risked his job to give Sherlock something to occupy his mind and to get criminals off the streets. Apparently not.

As John slammed the door to their Baker Street flat behind him, he shivered slightly, despite his raging anger. He couldn't go back in to get his coat though, so he'd just have to find somewhere warm to wait it out. Like a pub. Luckily he had his phone and wallet in his back pocket, so he started heading towards a nearby one to calm down a bit.

[5 hours later]

Sherlock emerged from his trance-like state on the couch (he had been filing away the results of his experiment into his mind palace, which now had an extra patch of lawn outside the living room window) to the sound of his phone ringing.

'John, my phone.' Sherlock thought he'd last seen it on the kitchen work surface, by the kettle. Much too far to bother getting up to fetch himself.

He heard no response from his flatmate. 'John, I need my phone!' he shouted, more forcefully than the first time, but there was still no movement from the rest of the flat, just the faint clinking of china from Mrs Hudson's flat downstairs as she made tea to go with her evening herbal soother.

As Sherlock listened, he realised that there was no noise at all to indicate that John was in the flat – so where was he? ….Oh. Right. He remembered now. John had gone out to try and get rid of some of his anger towards Sherlock. But he should have been back hours ago, shouldn't he? He hadn't had a coat after all, and even John wouldn't spend this long in the pub. He was interrupted from his musings by his phone ringing again. Thinking it could be John, Sherlock huffed in annoyance and swung his legs off the coach, his blue silk dressing gown floating out behind him. Stepping over the coffee table (why walk around it, when you could go over it!?), he made a beeline for the kitchen. Peering at his phone, which had shifted perilously close to the edge of the work surface with its vibrations, he saw the caller ID: Lestrade.

Sherlock smirked to himself. John must have done a splendid job apologising on Sherlock's behalf for him to contact him so soon. He picked up his phone, and said with mock irritation,

'Yes, Lestrade. What riveting case do you need my help on now?'

'No, Sherlock, I think we can do the case. It's John, I-' he paused, and Sherlock heard the rustle of cloth as he peered back over his shoulder. 'I think you really need to come and pick him up.'

'John? Is he alright? Do I need to call an ambulance? Or Mycroft, he could be there faster? Where are you?'

'Sherlock, calm down! He's not hurt, as such… look, can you just come down? I think you're the best person for this. He seems a bit… stressed.'

Sherlock had already got on his feet, slipping his shoes and Belstaff on, and was currently wrapping his scarf around his neck. On an impulse, he took John's coat off the coat hook too. He dashed down the stairs, getting the details from Lestrade as he went.


	2. Three hands and five bodies

As John opened the door to the pub, he was greeting a blast of warmth that made him gasp. He hadn't realised how cold he'd got walking round London in just a shirt and jumper. It was Sherlock's fault. If he hadn't been so bloody stubborn he wouldn't have to leave in a rush and… '_No, John'_ he thought. '_You're supposed to be trying to forget your anger, not reignite it.' _He breathed slowly once, twice, a third time, then walked over to the bar. It was still early evening, the light just beginning to fade outside, so there were still lots of spaces at the counter, and lots of seats too. He ordered a pint, and went to sit down at an empty table, far enough away from the door to avoid the draught but not so far towards the back of the pub that he felt excluded from the bustle that was starting to build. Besides, he needed a good view of the TV screen where the live football match was being aired if he wanted a distraction to stop thinking about Sherlock.

He'd probably been sitting there for a couple of hours (and was currently sipping at his third pint and munching a bowl of chips) when he was startled by his phone ringing. It was unlikely to be Sherlock – he preferred to text, after all – so he pulled it out of his pocket with interest. It was Greg.

'Hi, Greg. You alright?'

Greg made an indifferent grunt. 'Look, I don't suppose you've spoken to Sherlock about… yesterday, have you? I know I told him I wasn't going to give him any cases, but we're really stumped on this one. It's a bit gruesome, so right down his street. I was wondering if…' he trailed off.

John frowned slightly. He thought Greg was being a bit soft – he knew Sherlock had been a dick, but he couldn't just be utterly rude to people who actually thought him a friend.

'Um, yeah I spoke to him. Are you sure you want him back so soon? We had a bit of an argument actually, he was completely unrepentant about the whole thing, wouldn't even listen to me when I tried to explain to him why he'd been a bit not good. He even started guessing how long it would take for you to give in.'

There was a stifled snort from the other end of the phone. 'The git. He knows me too well, I suppose. To be honest, there's little point him coming down tonight, Anderson's on annual leave so I've got a decent forensics officer for now, but the crime scene's a bit spread out… it'll still be here tomorrow morning. Are you with him?'

'No, I walked out when I thought I'd punch him if I stayed any longer.'

Another snort. 'Oh, I don't suppose you want to come down, do you? Just in case his nibs decides he wants trusted records of the scene from tonight? It'd serve him right too, if you at least started on your own – I guess he deserves some sort of payback for what he said yesterday.'

John looked at his watch. 7.30. He'd had some food, and he'd only head back to Baker Street soon anyway, probably to be harassed by his flatmate. 'Yeah, ok. Give me the address, and I'll be there in a bit.'

It turned out the crime scene wasn't that far from where John had been at the pub, but in a remarkably deserted area for London. As he walked up to the edge of the crime scene tape, he heard a train roar past not far away. Lestrade was standing there, and John let out a low whistle. The lights of the forensics team were scattered about – he could see what Greg had meant about it being a large crime scene. As he approached, Greg looked up from where he was consulting a clipboard held by an officer in uniform and greeted John with a friendly smack on the shoulder. John tried to hide his wince – the cold hadn't done his bullet wound any good, and even the light impact was painful. Greg didn't seem to notice.

'John! Thanks for coming. Forensics are still going, but there's plenty for you to look while they're carrying on.' As they walked together, Greg sketched out the situation. 'Right, so far we've got three bodies – at least, we've found five hands, so we're assuming there's at least three. We've managed to find most of what we think is one of the bodies, but everything's pretty destroyed so we'll have to wait until we get the remains to the morgue to be sure what goes where. Other than that, we've got potentially just about half of one the others, and then just an extra hand. There could be more, but in this weather (the natural light had all but gone by now, and the wind that had chilled John as he walked to the pub had grown stronger and was beginning to cause havoc with the forensics tent) we'll no doubt find more in the morning.'

'That's it?' John queried. 'No weapons or anything?'

'Initially we thought car fire – we've got the shell of a car up ahead,' Greg pointed to a dark shadow behind a low wall, 'but the bodies seem too mangled to just be from that.'

'Someone chopped them up first, then burnt them?'

'Hmm, I don't think so. Most of the bodies aren't that badly burnt; only some bits are charred, and the bits look like they've been physically torn from each other.'

'Bomb?' They had reached the remains of the car (more of a truck really), where John could just see a lower leg a few feet away from the front tyres.

'That's what George thought, to begin with.' Greg indicated the temporary forensics officer, who was examining what appeared to be part of an arm not far away, under the light of the tent. 'But I'm not sure - I mean, I know this is quite secluded, but someone would have heard a bomb go off, surely? Also, the bodies are badly torn apart, but the van isn't. If the bomb was in or under it, surely it would be more damaged? Maybe we'll be able to understand it more when it's light and this damn wind has blown itself out.' As he spoke, a particularly strong gust blew, making John shiver. He really shouldn't have come to the crime scene without a coat.

'Perhaps. Do you mind if I have a look?' John asked, already walking around the back of the truck.

'No, go ahead. I've just got to go and talk to forensics, but if you need to ask anything just shout. We'll probably be winding up here soon anyway, just as soon as we've got the whole thing recorded. We can start on the clean up tomorrow, if Sherlock wants to come down.'

John made a hum of agreement, already focused on the remains of the vehicle. Greg smiled to himself. Sherlock had definitely taught this doctor something.

It was perhaps 15 minutes later when Greg heard a shout from one of his team who was near the van.

'Sir, is Dr Watson alright?'

'Why shouldn't he be?' Greg looked up from what he had been doing and peered towards where he had left John. He couldn't see him, and started walking out of the tent.

'I thought I heard him talking to himself. He sounded agitated, sir.'

'Ok, thanks. I'll look into it…' Greg petered out as he approached the vehicle. It was really quite dark now, since the forensics lights were beginning to be switched off. Just at that moment, another train rushed by. The sound echoed strangely off the surroundings, and Greg heard a sound from behind the shadow of the wall.

'John, mate, are you alright?' There was only the sound of rapid breathing. 'John?' he called in a louder voice. There was a flurry of movement, which Greg heard rather than saw in the dim light, and Greg felt himself pushed down behind the wall before John retreated back to his position between the wall and the truck.

'Stay down, soldier.' John's voice was a harsh whisper. 'I've called for back-up, they should be here as soon as we've cleared the area. I can't see anyone, I think it must have been an abandoned explosive. We'd know by now if the insurgents had hung around.'

'John, what are you talking about? It's only me, Greg. You're at a crime scene, remember?' Greg was feeling a bit anxious. He knew John had been a soldier before he was invalided home, but he never realised things were so fresh in his friend's memory. He thought he'd moved on.

'Damn it, did you hit your head? You're confused, you must be concussed. I lost my med bag in the explosion, hang on…' John sounded a bit panicked now.

'No, I'm fine. It's fine. You stay there, there's nothing to worry about.'

'LESTRADE!' Greg swore as John visibly flinched at the noise. Now was not the time for an inquisitive officer to come over.

'I'll be over in a minute, officer.' Greg replied in as loud a voice as he dared. He heard a sound of acknowledgment from the man as he returned to where he'd been working. John was moving around again now, trying to scramble into the back of the van. Greg closed his eyes briefly, then ferreted around in his pocket for his phone. Trying to comfort John at the same time, he rang Sherlock's mobile. It rang out.

'Dammit, Sherlock, not now…' He tried again, getting up slowly to try and soothe John who was still crawling around in the remains of the truck. Sherlock picked up this time. Greg breathed a sigh of relief and explained the situation.


	3. Who better to understand you?

**A/N – Thank you for everyone who has followed and/or favourited this story, and for the review. This is only my second fanfic, so I'm still really experimenting with what I like to write. Please be aware in this chapter for a vivid flashback (although I have no experience with this, and I'm sorry if I upset anyone with my imagining of it), and feel free to comment and critique!**

In the back of a cab, Sherlock was restless. He muttered at the cabbie to drive faster, cursed Lestrade under his breath for taking John to a crime scene without him, but most of all mentally kicked himself for not trying to find John sooner. If he had, this whole situation may have been avoided. Lestrade hadn't been very specific, but Sherlock had managed to piece together that something had triggered John to have some sort of a flashback – as the debacle at Baskerville had shown, John's PTSD could not be dismissed entirely.

As the cab pulled up to the road nearest the crime scene, Sherlock already had the right money in his hand (obviously – he knew all the roads in London, of course he knew how much the taxi fare would be!) and threw it at the driver. Wrenching the door open, he ran across to where he could see the forensic tent, ducking under the crime scene tape as he went. He verbally attacked the first person he found, even though it was someone he hadn't seen before.

'Where's John Watson? Or Lestrade, either will do.' Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. The man just stared back at him.

'Oh, for goodness sake. Your phone is vibrating in your pocket – perhaps you forgot to pick your children up from the childminder? If you'd just tell me where I could find John Watson and DI Lestrade, then you could read the text and find out, and the faster you do the first, the sooner you'll be able to do the second.' Sherlock was not in the mood for waiting.

The man, clearly a forensics officer going by his blue overalls, swallowed heavily. 'Er, are you Mr Holmes?'

'Irrelevant – I'll go and ask someone less incompetent than you,' Sherlock sneered.

'No, wait!' The man called out. 'You ARE Mr Holmes, aren't you? I've heard a lot about you.' Sherlock glared. 'Erm, I think they're over by the car,' he said quickly, pointing it out. 'I'm the senior forensics officer today, replacing Philip Anderson while he's away…'

'Keep everyone away from there!' Sherlock threw the comment over his shoulder but didn't stay to hear any more. As he ran, he tried to come up with a plan of action. Firstly, get Lestrade out of the way – he obviously didn't know how to deal with John, and would be useful in keeping curious policemen out of the way. Secondly… well, he wasn't entirely sure. Not until he'd actually seen John, then he could use his powers of observation to understand the best way forward.

As Sherlock approached the wall behind which stood the shadow of the ruined car, he heard Lestrade trying to calm John down. He called out quietly, 'Lestrade?'

'Oh, thank God, Sherlock. I don't know what to do – I think he's suffering a flashback or something like that, but I've tried talking to him-' Another train roared by, and John shouted out, reaching for an imaginary gun at the same time. Lestrade backed away and came to stand by Sherlock. 'Initially he thought I was one of his men and that I'd been injured, but then he suddenly flipped and now he thinks I'm an enemy, I think. He looks like he's trying to treat somebody but keeps looking up at me and pointing at his upper arm, I guess where his Red Cross band would be?'

Sherlock nodded in understanding, then dismissed Lestrade. He would be of no use, and it was better to get him out of the way in case John did anything rash.

'Watson?' Sherlock called out tentatively, not wanting to startle John any more than necessary. Lestrade hadn't been getting anywhere because he hadn't tried to get John to trust him, lost in his past as he was. If John could relate to Sherlock in his present condition, then it would be easier to get him to come back to reality.

John's head snapped up. He gasped, and hurriedly fixed down a pretend strip of gauze with bandages before rushing over to Sherlock, standing just outside the back of the truck. He pushed Sherlock down to the ground, cradling his head as he did so and swearing under his breath.

'It's alright, Private, don't worry, I'll sort it out, it's not too bad, keep still….' John kept up the litany of words. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Lestrade and a couple of others standing at a short distance. He ignored them. John was his priority. The hidden panic in John's voice betrayed him. To someone who was really injured, he would no doubt be a soothing presence, but to Sherlock, who was both decidedly not injured and many times more observant than anyone John would have treated before, it was obvious that in John's head, things were obviously not alright.

Sherlock kept silent this time, but reached up slowly with his left hand and gently grasped John's bicep. He began to rub his thumb gently back and forth, but John seemed oblivious to the movement.

'No, damn you, don't do this to me. Come on, come on.' John pushed down hard on Sherlock's leg. It was actually quite painful, and Sherlock let out a small gasp. It just made John push down harder. Sherlock had to speak now.

'Doctor, it's ok. Don't worry about me, it's nothing. The blood's stopped, can't you feel it?' John was as ignorant to Sherlock's voice as he had been to his actions. It seemed John was truly immersed in his nightmare. It made Sherlock try harder.

'No, no, no, you're stronger than this, come on! Eyes open, Private.' The panic in John's voice had increased and he began to gently slap Sherlock's face, as if to keep him awake. This continued for a couple of moments, with Sherlock still rubbing his thumb gently on John's arm, but to no avail. 'Damn it, man. What's Lucy going to say at home, hmm? You can't leave her like that, she's expecting you home next week. What am I going to tell-' John paused and sniffed, his voice rough. 'What am I going to tell her? What am I going-?' John broke off again, and when he had tied an imaginary bandage around Sherlock's leg, held his hand gently, as if he had realised he could do nothing else. The pain in John's eyes was harrowing. Sherlock realised this could be his chance. If he could get John to register his movements when he thought his patient had already died… but John was still speaking to him, his voice soft now, although he kept looking around him, as if to see who was next for him to treat. He then looked up and sighed.

'You just missed the chopper, mate. Go easy now, yeah, and say hello to everyone we miss, yeah?' Losing someone on the battlefield obviously never got easier for John. He may be a military captain, but he was still a human being – that's what made him such a good doctor. John made to stand up, and started speaking to someone walking towards him, summarising the situation. This was obviously someone from the rescue helicopter. Sherlock held onto John's arm and John looked down alarmed.

'Watson? Look at me, take the bandage off.' John didn't move. 'Captain! Take the bandage off!' Apparently a more commanding approach was the way to go – confused, John slowly moved his hands to untie the bandage he thought he had tied only minutes ago, never taking his eyes off Sherlock.

'What can you smell, captain? Can you smell blood? Sand?' Sherlock saw that the best way forward was to get John to realise his senses were conflicting with where he thought he was. John swallowed, looking down to where his hands were resting on Sherlock's leg and sniffed loudly. Sherlock continued in his deep voice, 'Can you really smell Afghanistan, John? I can't. I can smell London – damp, grass and… home. Baker Street. Can't you smell it too?' Sherlock lifted his sleeve closer to John's face so that he might be able to smell his coat.

John closed his eyes and shuddered, his hands beginning to shake. He began in a whisper, fear still clouding his voice. 'Grass… and blood, there's still blood, an- and,' he paused, gasping, 'Sher- I can smell Sherlock.' John snapped his eyes open and looked directly at Sherlock, before roving his eyes his whole body. 'Oh my god, oh my god, are you alright? Did I hurt you? What did I do?' Trembling, John crawled back from Sherlock until he found something to lean against – the wall. He curled up (Sherlock suddenly had a thought that John looked very much like he did himself when he was curled up on his armchair) and rested his forehead on his knees, still shaking. Sherlock noticed with concern that John's breathing had become rather too fast and too shallow. He scrambled over.

'John? John, it's ok, you're safe now. You're just at a crime scene, remember? You've got to breathe, John, can you do that?' As he spoke, Sherlock manhandled John so he was sitting in front of Sherlock, between his legs. All the time he was internally cursing himself for letting John come out by himself – if he hadn't been so stubborn earlier….

John's breathing wasn't really getting any better, and now it sounded like he was crying too. Sherlock was feeling a bit out of his depth, but John was his best friend – he owed it to him to comfort him. Sherlock suddenly realised how cold John was, and remembering he'd brought John's coat with him rescued it from its perch on the wall and wrapped it round John's shaking shoulders. He also unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and bundled that around his friend. The smells of home might help with John's recovery.

'Breathe with me John, slowly.' Sherlock continued in a quiet voice, rumbling in John's ear. As he did so, he breathed in incredibly deeply so that John could feel the movement of his chest, and laid his hand over John's heart. In response, John buried his nose in Sherlock's scarf and tried to match his breathing to Sherlock's. It took a minute or so, but eventually his breathing was not verging on hyperventilating anymore and his tears had started to subside. He shifted round so that he was on his knees in front of Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his friend's neck.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I shouted at you earlier and then I came out here and I've made a right fool of myself and you had to come out here to see me like that and-' John was rambling now.

Although Sherlock was a bit uncomfortable with the hug, this was John doing it, and Sherlock did feel responsible for John's anguish. In that vein he wrapped his arms around John and rested his head on John's shoulder.

'John, it's fine. I'm sorry too, for,' he coughed lightly 'not listening to you when you were trying to tell me what I'd done wrong. I, er, actually do appreciate it when you try and tell what's not good, even though I don't always show it. And I'm sorry for all of this as well.' He gesticulated at the area around them.

'Oh, God. Thank you for coming for me, it was like I was back there and-' John was gripping Sherlock's arm tightly.

'Calm, John. Well, Lestrade wasn't doing a very good job of it, was he? You needed someone who understands you. It was quite obvious what was the matter – when I had observed-'

John interrupted him, huffing out a laugh. 'Yes, thank you genius, you were doing well, don't ruin it now. I do appreciate it, though. Thanks.' He made to get up, but Sherlock held on just a moment longer.

'It was elementary, John. Who better to understand you than your, um, best friend?' Sherlock coughed awkwardly.

John grinned, and Sherlock was sure that if it had been light he would have seen a faint blush on the tips of his ears. John was so predictable in that way. 'Who indeed….' With an extra squeeze, John released Sherlock and stood up. He turned round and immediately saw Lestrade standing not far away, in silhouette from the forensics light. He groaned and turned back to Sherlock, who had just got up and was fixing his suit.

'Umm, did he….?' John looked anxious and embarrassed in equal measure.

Sherlock scratched his head and looked down. 'Ah, he called me, actually. He wasn't sure what to do. We can, erm, let's just go home, hm? I'll talk to him tomorrow. I think you need a cup of tea. I'll even make it for you, if you want.' He strode past John, grabbing his hand as he went, and walked past Lestrade, calling to him as he went.

'John needs to go home, Inspector. I'm sure you can sort this one out on your own, but I'll text you tomorrow. Come on, John.'

As they walked towards the main road to get a cab, John looked askance at his friend.

'You'll really make me tea?'

Sherlock just smirked.


	4. Gratitude

**A/N – Ok, this is it. Thank you for everyone who has read, reviewed etc., I'm starting to discover why people love writing fanfiction! In the meantime, I think I just need to find a corner to cry in somewhere! I read (perhaps foolishly) the Baker St Babes spoiler-free review of Sign of Three and I am in tears already….**

That night, Sherlock and John stayed up late watching rubbish TV – John knew that his nightmares would probably interrupt his sleep anyway, so he might as well stay awake as long as possible. Soon though, the stress of the day caught up with him and he couldn't help but feel his eyelids growing heavy. He started to get up to drag himself upstairs to his room, but Sherlock appeared by his side.

'By my observations, you have a 78% chance of experiencing nightmares tonight. Whenever you have a nightmare upstairs in your own room, it lasts on average 33 minutes more and it takes you 1 hour 12 minutes longer to fall back asleep compared to when you fall asleep down here and have a nightmare. Possibly because upstairs you feel more alone and isolated, but more probably because when you are down here you not only feel the presence of another person in the room, but also you can hear my violin more easily. The music helps you calm down, and so based on this evidence it would be more beneficial for you to sleep down here on the sofa tonight. It is big enough that it will not be too uncomfortable. I will go and get your duvet and pillow from upstairs.' Sherlock swirled out.

John just stared after him. Thinking about it, he was right. When John was upstairs with his bedroom door closed it was hard to hear Sherlock's violin – but it was surprising that Sherlock seemed to play for John's benefit. Tonight had showed John that Sherlock really did care. Even if the tea he had made was a bit too strong for his liking.

John woke up the next morning, having had a surprisingly restful night. Sherlock piped up from the kitchen, answering John's question before he'd even asked it.

'No, you did not have a full-on nightmare. At two separate points during the night you appeared restless and agitated, but you calmed once I began playing the violin. I was thinking – it would make a good experiment. Perhaps I could see what type of music has the most calming effect on nightmares of different kinds, and even dreams of-'

'No, Sherlock!' There was affection in John's voice, despite the reprimand. 'You are not experimenting on me, is that clear?!'

Sherlock pouted, but was soon distracted by his phone vibrating. He read the text quickly, then typed out a reply just as fast.

'Was it Lestrade?' John asked, reaching up to the cupboard to get two mugs down for tea.

'Yes.'

'Does he want you for the case?'

'He did, but I told him I wasn't coming.'

'Are you sure? I don't mind.' John sounded concerned.

'No, honestly, it's fine. I told you yesterday I had some rather urgent experiments to be getting on with, and the statement still holds. I can keep myself busy for this one.'

What Sherlock didn't tell John was that he had texted Lestrade a detailed explanation of why he and John would not be returning to the crime scene. When he had first arrived, it had been immediately obvious why John had been triggered. John's shoulder was playing up, and the way John had been holding it made it obvious someone had touched it – probably Lestrade. The burnt out shell of the van was in fact an old British army truck, which was why it held up so well against the bomb. There was still the faint smell of explosives inside, and the proximity to the railway line meant that the trains were loud enough to cover the sound of a small but powerful explosion, in addition to being a loud noise which was enough to trigger John's flashback. Couple that with the fact that John was still stressed from their argument, and that the remains of the bodies were no doubt reminiscent of those John had seen in Afghanistan… well, it wasn't a huge intellectual leap.

Lestrade had texted back and apologised for what he'd done, both for shouting at Sherlock and taking John to the crime scene. Sherlock, feeling that he ought to be civil for John's sake, had replied and apologised for his role in the argument too, but still maintained they would not be returning to the crime scene.

John placed a mug down by Sherlock's elbow and sat down with a grunt. Sherlock looked up.

'Thank you.' In his eyes he tried to convey that this was for everything, not just for last night.

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'It is my pleasure, John.' His eyes expressed a similar sentiment. He coughed. 'Would you like to come out for a walk with me? I need to go and collect samples from some more parks, and I'd be grateful for your help.'

John smiled. 'Only if we can stop for lunch in the middle.'

Sherlock grinned. Business as usual.


End file.
